


Lullaby Boy

by auxanges



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:56:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have pretty eyes."<br/>Happy birthday Gilberto</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby Boy

You have pretty eyes, says the boy with the chestnut hair and a voice like a slow lullaby. The grass is almost taller than him, him with his scrawny arms and clean face. His head is tipped the slightest bit, as if trying to determine, still, whether or not he trusts you.

You frown. What is that supposed to mean? you ask, the words sharp from your mouth and aimed at the little doll that claims to be like you. Somewhere in your blood an eagle unfurls its wings.

Even the tiny prince's shrug is elegant; another reason for you to believe the boy when he says he's not ten but in fact two hundred years old. It means you have pretty eyes, he responds with a smirk. A smirk. The nerve of the little brat makes you, the boy with fire under your skin want to run and run and never once look back, and take him with you, safe and away from the ever-growing world.

*

You have pretty eyes, says the boy with the ring on his finger and the venom in his voice. His hair is neat and carefully placed. Yours needs a trim. He's started wearing glasses, thin black frames aligned with high cheekbones that pierce into the very essence of your being, into the bass drum coaxing little soldiers in a row to fight for their country, fight for their land, fight for you.

You silly little boy.

His hands are cool and soft and know just what makes you tick, despite having never touched you before. You serve God, after all, and even an Empire cannot defy God.

The lullaby-boy seems to think otherwise as he commands you to your knees, and the midday light outside does nothing to cast off the darkness in those violet eyes that have already sent you crawling to the confines of safety and prayer.

He smells like wine and Spanish countryside, and it rips into your subconscious and invades every crevice of free will you thought you had.

You learn what hatred is. You learn what jealousy is. And yet you cannot differentiate between them as you spit at his feet and spur your horse fast enough to finally make your eyes water.

*

Red and red and more red greet you with every step of heeled boots across a muddy field. On the grass. Your hands. Your face. The twilight air is thick with the stench of death and something you don't recognize.

He's waiting for you, at the bottom of a hill with his perfect hair and his perfect posture and a perfect smirk that perfectly hones in on your boiling blood.

It feels good when your sword makes contact with his, but not good enough.

The Sun is gone and silver streaks of moonlight stain the hair of an angel you are sure was sent to haunt you, awake and dreaming.

He starts to falter, you start to rise, pristine coats start to lace through with sparkling bronze and the morbid stillness around you is broken as you start to laugh.

He's not screaming yet. Not singing his lullaby.

He pulls at your sleeve when he finally falls, and makes no noise when you land hard on top of him. One practiced hand pulls off your hat and grins. Grins. Unacceptable.

Your blade is at his throat, ready to wipe it clean.

You have pretty eyes, says the man who knows how to win even when he loses.

You finally hear him scream.

*

Outside, the sky is on fire. Inside, you are the ashes, the smouldering charred remains of what used to be.

He's beside you on the bed, black buttons undone, mottled blueredpurple peppering paper-white skin like a mosaic in those churches you used to know so well.

His hands are so thin as they pull the invisible chain you've known for centuries. You are happy to oblige. You are happy that after all this time, he's gotten off his high horse and come crawling back.

No, he didn't even crawl--he walked right into it. He wanted it.

Just like you did, somewhere. Somehow.

He calls your name. A whisper in bed. A shout across a field. A choked sob tumbling from a sleepy tongue. A formal nod in prestigious courts that smell of parchment.

You turn. You find a part of his body you haven't claimed yet, and make a note to fix it later.

You have pretty eyes, says the man who didn't take very long to agree to an annexation, to you.

Thank you, you say, because your lullaby-boy likes his manners. So do you.

He smirks. Pulls the chain again, dragging you deeper into the lace and the sugar and the velvet songs you've been so busy running from you didn't notice you were running toward, instead.

And you let him.

 


End file.
